Allelopathy | 12.75" x 24" | watercolor, gouache, charcoal, and colored pencil on paper
allelopathy
brassworks gallery
portland, or
March 2025
For the group exhibition “In Shadow” at Brassworks Gallery, curated by Lana Crooks.
Every year I race to collect fallen fruit from the oldest black walnut trees in town before the fall rains rot the tannin-rich hulls I use for inks and dyes. I’ve made a ritual of cycling to the trees with the best yields, not wanting to take more than my share and deprive the wildlife: the squirrels who steadily gnaw their way through to the precious seed, and thieve my harvest from the porch to bury in my garden; or the clever crows, who wait for car tires to crush the hard shells before swooping in and picking out the nutmeats.
But this fall is a mast year, with every tree shedding fruit in such excess that we have no need to compete. The neon green orbs coat the lawns, making it hard to walk under the canopy, and I keep my helmet on as fresh nuts plummet from the high branches every minute or two. I quickly fill my freezer with enough walnuts to last me years, all from the same tree, and make no impact on the surplus of fruit. I take bonus trips and scatter nuts throughout my yard for the squirrels who are not lucky enough to live near a black walnut tree. I like to think there is an understanding between scavengers, an imperceptible bond between whoever partakes of a common tree. It delights and amazes me that the black walnut was ever a popular choice for urban planting; aside from the risk of concussion and general messiness that draws in hordes of noisy crows, the trees have a bad reputation for their allelopathic effect. All parts of the plant contain juglone, a chemical that leaches into soil and stunts the growth of sensitive plants. Juglans nigra, one god of many, who gives life and takes it away.
In my final devotional visit of the year to my particular tree, I find a baby squirrel at the base of its trunk, apparently fallen from a fatefully-placed nest. Too young to open his eyes, he rolls and squeaks pitifully in the leaf litter, trying to nurse the empty air. I’m torn between my instinct to help, and a different sort of understanding about the way of things. In my periphery, the crows circle. Beneath my feet, roots creep along, seeking balance in the wake of indulgence.